


From the Gods

by Mixu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Denest week, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Siren sunday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mixu/pseuds/Mixu
Summary: What do you do when you hear something no one  else does? Barely an explanation for such a plaguing thing.Written for Denest weekPrompt: Siren Sunday





	From the Gods

“...I tell you, it was loud! I am surprised my own crew would doubt me like this when the goddess Rán herself preyed on me. Or are you all just deaf?” the blond man with wild hair towered over a few of his crewmates. They were on a trading route, far south with warm weather, settled at a port for three days. 

“But such ways are unheard of,” one of the bearded Scandinavians quipped, “I do not doubt you Mikkel, it certainly must have been a sign from the Gods but I do not believe it was from her. Especially since we were already inland.” 

The blond viking grew frustrated with the fickleness around him. How could no one have heard such a melody. Such a voice that was meant to lure him away from this world. “It came from the water. My ears have never controlled me like the spell of such music.”

“My dear men, sorry to interrupt, but are we talking about sirens?” a voice behind the tall blond asked in their language. Mikkel turned, hand ready on the battleaxe swinging passively on his belt. The tan and dark-haired merchant, so unlike their own, was wise enough to hold up his hands in defense.

“I am no threat, I happened to just notice your dilemma.”

“How do you speak our language?” one of the men inquired. They usually got through trades without a need to actually converse with the natives of these lands. Their own settlements and merchants staying here did the in-place trading and were the multilingual ones, while shipmen as Mikkel and his crew were to take the items back to Scandinavia to the safety of their own lands.

“I trade with your people of course. Herakles, nice to meet you,” he calmly introduced. Even if from the clothes his profession had been clear from sight to the well-traveled Danes, the man was as tall as Mikkel, fit to be a soldier on these lands. The notion still had the ship captain on guard. It wouldn’t be the first time an ambush happened. He relaxed his stance, but his hand stayed on top of the axe in seeming leisure.

“I am Mikkel. This is my crew. What is this siren you mentioned?”

“A great question, my friend. I’ve come across one.” The southener took a comfortable seat on one of the crates, something that had some of the men raising their eyebrows at the audacity. Nonetheless, none of them took action and let the man speak.

“Sirens tempt you to leap into the sea with their enchanting music and divine voices. The embodiement of temptation to derail seamen from course into rocky waters, rejects of Persephone. Some men are so drawn they leap over the ship’s edge immediately into their demise. I was saved by the heavy cloud of sleep, only partially hearing the music sweetening my dreams, yet not all were so fortunate. Truly strong men escorted me here, I would not be alive otherwise.”

A pause filled the air as the crew considered this information. “Ah,” the bearded man from before contemplated, “but only Mikkel heard this ‘siren call’. The rest of us only heard a low thrum. Nothing like he describes to us.” 

“Hm, well then it must not be sirens. Maybe your friend is delusional without a woman on this voyage,” the merchant said noncommittally, Mikkel shutting up the escaping laughs with a cold glare.

“If it is not one of your Gods’ creatures and not one of ours, then what is it which is so similar but still too different?” Mikkel asked with crossed arms.

The merchant looked distracted now, possibly bored. “Where did you hear the melody?”

“Right before reaching the Latgals, we were voyaging across the rivers.”

The heavily built merchant actually yawned as he stood up, his eyes following a stray animal walking afar. “Maybe it was some local magicwork unknow to either of our cultures,” the man said offhandedly. Still, he turned once more to the viking men.

“But now I must bid you good bye. I have matters to attend to before sundown.”

The Norsemen watched him leave in silence.

“We don’t know anything about the Balts’ Gods, they might not have any at all,” one of them contemplated, similar to the leader by age but smaller in stature and more carefree in nature. Mikkel’s crew seemed to be at ease about this conclusion, visions from the Gods were not as uncommon as one would think, especially if the low thrum by itself resembled a constant that was heard by commmanders in the wake of a raid, replicated thus in their own ceremonies from time to time. 

The crew continued to unload some crates for the day and settled in the tavern by the evening. Most of the men were taking it easy, celebrating, Mikkel usually accompanying them all the same and outdrinking everyone daring to challenge him. But not this time. This time the leader was taking a time to himself on the sidelines, the melody haunting him still. He drank to either find clarity or get rid of the deeply rich voice echoing in words he did not understand. Again, that signified towards some Baltic witchery. The young but growingly notorious Mikkel surely was above such trickery rivaling Loki himself. Perhaps it _was_ Loki? It couldn’t be. He hasn’t heard of a wordful sign from the Gods in the last generations. It is all imagery, sent storms, ravens, hawks, the rioting sea or in one case, tree sap gone inexplicably blood-red. The low thrum might have deceived his men but it did not deceive him.

He was brought out from his reverie as one of his men found him and challenged him to a drink. Most of his musings concluded, inebriation growing, Mikkel broke into an effortless laugh, the competitiveness and true spirit welling up as it was time to reassert his victories. 

......

The nights, all three of them passed in fitful sleep. He drank, he laid, yet in his sleep the rich callings brought him back to the mild lands of forested greenery, bewitching him, making him yearn, long, obsess to find the source which sent his skin to prickle in a pleasant way. He saw flashes of a face, always forgotten once woken with a start. Forests. Only forests dark green in his mind. His heart pounding, his skin cold from sweat as the melody haunted from the waking moment. Who was this deity?

They set sail on the fourth morning, Mikkel keeping quiet about his growing obsession, his wait to reach past the Latgals’ border to north. If one could call it a border. He wanted that land to himself. He yearned to take what caused him fitful nights in the worst way for one man in his prime, incurable even by the the most seductive whores and coyest maidens on the way. He will take the land or he will find the cause of this. But first, he must be patient, perhaps passing once more will cure the unquenchable melody thrumming through his skull. He dearly hoped so.

.....

They were quietly making way through the considerably narrow river, passing settlements here and there, but mostly surrounded by forests on either side of them. Mikkel was disappointed. The ‘Siren’ was nowhere to be heard. He could’ve sworn the source was near last time. Yet nothing. He could see from the corner of his eye that some of the men who hadn’t forgotten their captain’s claims were tense, looking around as inconspiciously as possible and keeping their ears sharp. 

They passed villages, the folk onlooking passively as they went about their daily lives, the Danes answering with equal passiveness. Yet suddenly, Mikkel’s heart thundered. His eyes met with the forest green, the face from his forgotten dreams. His ears were filled with an orchestra of foreign melody, roaring to life. Mikkel jumped overboard. His men yelled in alarm seeing the merchant’s story coming to life, but he couldn’t hear them. The green eyes disappeared between the huts as he swam as fast as he could to shore, uncaring of the chilly water. The village was small. He could find the siren! He will find his siren!

The folk he ran past were mortified but probably realized this wasn’t a raid as he did nothing but just storm past them. He didn’t care about spoils right now. He stopped at the edge of the small village, panting, soaked from the water and partially covered in river weeds as his eyes searched for his tormentor across the harvested fields. He saw three figures afar on top of a mount of hay. The viking ran closer, startling the still young men, one of them clearly a boy, the other two looking barely of proper age but men enough nonetheless what concerned him. 

And of those three he found the dark green eyes that sparked a new wave of flashes from his forgotten dreams, tempting and not nearly as innocent as the younger more slender man in front of him seemed.

“My siren!” He called with command, standing just far enough to not pose any threat. The three mumbled something among themselves, confused, so Mikkel pointed at the fair-haired villager, startling the other two more than his bewitcher, who measuredly jumped down from the bundle of sun-dried greenery, lots of it stuck in his simple linen clothing. 

Mikkel took a step closer, so clearly towering over the curious wide-eyed villager. “I am taking you to myself. You’ve tormented me. It’s you or your land. Pick wisely,” he demanded. The villager shook his head, speaking in a tone that suggested he did not understand. The words were foreign. The voice was familiar and Mikkel was hellbent in hearing him sing again. He stumbled with his thoughts momentarily as how to make his intentions clear. He didn’t know how exactly, but this seemingly reserved and confused young man needed to come with him. Learn his language so he could unveil the secrets this ‘siren’ undoubtedly carried within himself. There was no other explanation why Mikkel would be enchanted, enamoured by such a plain, lanky man with no exceptionally outstanding visual qualities. But right now he was treasure, a spoil for Mikkel to take and polish and hide away from anyone else. 

“Sing,” the Scandinavian said, only receiving a confused set of furrowed brows. Mikkel pushed down his frustration and temptation to just take the other by force. His screams won’t be good for trading across the village. At least not as a first resort. He himself sang a verse of a simple song he knew and then pointed to the other, and thank Gods he got the idea.

The villager carefully sounded out a few verses of his own foreign song, not the one haunting him, but definitely confirming that he was Mikkel’s spoil. His voice grew as he saw the encouragement light up in this strange man’s face who had come running to him. And Mikkel took his arm band, took the younger’s hand which quieted the melodic voice. He placed the metal around the slender wrist. The fair-haired villager wasn’t to be a slave and his crew will see it. The villager’s green eyes stared, taken aback and Mikkel smiled down at him, tugging his hand and half turning to go. The younger blond’s cheeks were burning with realization and it painted a victoriously addictive picture to the viking. His treasure doesn’t shine, it burns like his obsession to have him.

“Come with me,” Mikkel said, trying his voice to be as gentle as possible not to scare off his prize, his enigma to unlock once they’re back. 

The villager said something a bit louder, momentarily turning to the two other companions still perched on top of the hay mount, and actually let Mikkel tug him along even if his own step was stumbling and miscalculated at the hasty pace. 

The crew stayed quiet at the dock as they saw their captain return with a villager, the linen-clothed young man wearing a bracelet that made the intentions of their leader clear. Mikkel sat the younger blond next to him who stayed quiet and let himself be taken captive, to somewhere with his own fate unclear, the wide curious eyes holding a hint of fear in them. The leader wondered how much did the man give in for the sake of his village and not for the žest he’d made for him. It didn’t matter. His siren will come to love him soon enough. He had little choice.

What Mikkel didn’t see as their crew prepared to go once again was the coy knowing smile his spoil sent his two companions now at the riverside seeing him off, wearing matching expressions.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally could get this up! :D


End file.
